Meet The Wilders
by samchandler1986
Summary: Ruth's parents come to visit.


Ruth lands badly, elbow striking the mat hard, the breath knocked from her body. "Oof," she manages, wincing. She raises a hand. "Give me… a minute."

"Are you okay?" Carmen asks, worried.

"Just a bad landing."

"No, I know that. It's just…" Carmen drops her voice so the others, engaged in their own training around the room, can't hear. "You can normally do these moves in your sleep. You just seem a little off today."

Ruth closes her eyes, frustrated. "Yeah, I guess I am a little distracted." She accepts her friend's hand, pulling her back onto her feet, and decides to be honest. "My parents are coming to town."

Carmen grimaces. "They don't approve of wrestling?"

"No, no." Ruth considers this. "Well, they don't really know that's what I'm doing right now."

Carmen raises a sceptical eyebrow. "They didn't watch the pilot?"

"Ah, no." Ruth swallows. "I didn't actually... didn't actually tell them about it."

"So… _you're_ ashamed of wrestling?"

"No. No! I love what we do here. Love it."

"Right. You just don't want people you care about to know you love it?"

Ruth sighs, and stops digging. "I don't know. I just, I don't get the feeling they're going to exactly be thrilled about all _this_." She indicates the bare brick and concrete of their surrounds, the wrestling ring stained with unknowable fluids.

Carmen smiles. Despite herself Ruth finds herself smiling back, the grin infectious. "I guess they might have a point. But look, if my Dad can come around to it, I'm sure they will too."

Ruth nods, trying to convince herself. "You're right." She rubs her elbow, the pain fading to a dull ache. "I'm sure you're right. You ready to throw me again?"

Carmen's smile grows even broader. "Machu Picchu is."

"Then let's do this."

* * *

 _Bring-bring_. The room 'phone trills as Ruth is dressing from the shower, hair still wrapped in a towel.

"Hello?"

"You have customer," says Gregory.

"What?"

"Customer. At ze desk."

" _What_?" But Gregory has hung up. She swears softly under her breath, throwing off the towel and slipping on her trainers. She enters the office seconds later at a run. "Gregory, I've told you before—"

"Ruth!"

"Darling!"

And there are her parents, visitors from another planet crashing into the world she has built here. Matter out of place, somehow smaller, _stranger_ than she is used to seeing them.

"Mom! Dad!"

She lets them envelope her in a hug. Dad is thinner than she remembers, tan. The bicycle he bought as part of his retirement seems to be agreeing with him. Her mom seems a little more crisp and formal than usual; she's dressed to impress.

"Oh, honey, you're too thin," she says, their standard greeting.

"Nonsense! She looks great. You do sweetheart, really good."

"You too Dad. Um, shall we go and get some coffee?"

"I figured you'd need some," smiles her Mom. "Actresses, eh? Late to rise..!"

"Well," says Ruth, trying to keep herself from sounding accusatory, "you _are_ two hours earlier than I was expecting…"

"Coffee would be great, Ruth," says Dad, ever the peacemaker.

The local greasy spoon is a short walk away in the morning sun. It's pleasant, quiet, walking alongside them. "So, what's the deal with the motel?"

"Well, our director thought it would be good for the team if we lived together, Mom. Kind of like…" She gropes for a comparison that isn't rehab. "Like Olympic Village."

"That sounds unusual," says Dad.

"It is, I guess," she concedes. "But it's worked _really_ well—"

"Uh-huh? Is it just you guys in the motel then?"

"Uh, mostly, yes…" She has a feeling she knows where this line of questioning is going to go.

"Only the man on the front desk seemed to think that some of the guests were… you know…" Her mother draws breath, somehow managing to make her whisper even louder than her normal voice. " _Prostitutes."_

"Yeah. I know. He's a little… different. Gregory. We're not… we're not doing that, Mom. I swear."

"Sweetie," demurs her Mom. "I never for a second thought—"

"No, no, it's ok," says Ruth. "You know, it happens sometimes. But _I'm_ not… That's not something I would ever—"

"Ah-hem," coughs her Dad, crimson coloured. "Is this the place?"

Never has she been more grateful to see the fizzing neon over the diner door. "This is it," she says brightly. "Shall we go get that coffee?"

* * *

"So," she says, pushing open the gym door, "this is, uh, this is where we train…"

They step forward into the space that is starting to feel more and more like home. The musty smell of sweat and wood polish; light streaming in through the mullioned windows. Her mother looks doubtful, but Ruth's heart is light for once.

"Every day?"

"Every day," she affirms. "Come on over to the ring."

They do as she asks, hesitant and scuttling; reluctant pilgrims in her cathedral. "Gosh, I thought it would be softer," says her mother, touching the canvas.

"Yeah, it's mostly wood and steel," agrees Ruth.

"And you land on that?"

"Yes, Dad."

"Wow. Honey, that's… that's impressive."

"And dangerous. Do you get hurt?"

" _No_ , Mom. It's all… it's very safe. We're professionals. I can show you, if you'd like?"

"Don't you need a partner?"

Ruth merely grins in response.

She jumps into the ring and for a fraction of a second there is a sense of leaving herself behind. Beyond the ropes Ruth is folded away; Zoya unfurls in her place.

"In the ring," she says, half to herself as much as her parents, "I am noble Soviet Bear." She strikes her pose. "Zoya, the Destroyer. Scourge of American Barbie girl - Liberty Belle." She pours as much venom as she can into that name. "I start with the hammer and sickle, like _this_!" _Bang, crash._ "Then, I go into _hammerlock_!" _Smack._ She scrabbles across the canvas, into the routine now—

"What the _fuck_?"

Sam's voice cuts through even her commitment to the bit. She snaps back into her own skin as he emerges from his office. It's been a rough night by the looks of things; hair standing on end, glasses askew, and a rumpled shirt he's clearly slept in. "It's eight in the morning," he continues, "even for you this is—"

"Sam, these are my parents," she says as brightly and loudly as she can.

He blinks, taking in the strangers through bleary eyes. "Oh." There is a moment of silence, the kind where everyone has to adjust their expression. "Hi."

* * *

"Hey, Ruth," says Debbie carefully, descending from on high. "Sam wants to see you in his office."

"Okay," she replies tightly.

Debbie hesitates, watching her former best friend box a punch-bag. She knows, of course, that something is bothering Ruth. Can read it in the pitch of her voice, the stiff line of her shoulders. The world holds its breath, as Debbie does, making her decision…

Debbie swallows the question on the tip of her tongue, _are you okay_ drifting away into the ether. She nods instead, and moves away to finish some blocking with Rhonda. They're not there yet. Maybe they never will be.

Ruth hits the bag a harder, as if that can fix this whole fucked up situation.

"Are you _mad_ at me?"

She jumps at his voice, finally stops punching. "I didn't hear you," she says, surprised to find she is sweating, out of breath with the sustained effort.

"Not surprised," he says. "Were you imagining that was my face?"

"No."

"Can I talk to you now?" He says it sarcastically, but she could still take it as a question, flounce away.

She sighs. That's never going to be who she is. "Sure." She follows him upstairs, takes a seat on the sofa. "Why were you sleeping here, anyway?"

He fixes her with what he probably thinks is a stern, intimidating look. "I was working late."

"On what?"

"On this." He indicates the mess of paper on his desk. On closer inspection, it turns out of be a set design and new storyboards.

"Yeah," she says, taking in the redesigned ring and rows of folding bench seats, "um, it looks good." She scratches her wrist distractedly.

"Good?"

"Yeah."

"That's all you have to say?"

"What, you actually _want_ criticism now? I thought I was just a benign sounding board?"

He rolls his eyes, making her wait for him to finish fumbling a cigarette from the packet before he answers. "Okay, okay. I get that you're mad at me. I'm just not sure why."

She sighs, pressing fingers to her forehead. "I'm not… actually mad at _you_ ," she tries to explain. "I just… I wanted my parents to think that this was, you know. Legitimate."

He puffs up, entirely predictably. "We're commissioned for a series. What's not legitimate about GLOW?"

"I know, I know. But, come on Sam! You weren't exactly sold on this in the beginning either. And the gym is… kind of nasty. Oh, plus I live in a motel where the owner thinks I'm a prostitute."

A deep drag of his cigarette, as he considers the problem. "Well, who gives a fuck if they don't like it? You're a grown woman. I'm paying you. You don't have to worry about rent. Screw 'em."

"Yeah, I," is all she manages, frustrated; unable to find the right words.

"What, you don't want that? You actually want a functional relationship with them? Huh."

"Yeah, _I'm_ weird for wanting that, right? A functional relationship with anybody." She worries her thumbnail with her teeth, ignoring the weight of his gaze on her. She hates this way he has, sometimes, of being so emotionally shrewd.

"Alright," he says slowly, "so let's work it out."

"No, no, _we_ don't need to do this. _I_ will—"

"Clearly we do, if I'm going to get you to be productive again any time soon," he snaps back. "So, what makes something legitimate? Y'know. In their eyes?"

"I don't know," she sighs. "I guess… if it's art." She counts the list on her fingers. "If it's skilled. If there's longevity to it. If it's respectable."

They think about it, the sounds of unarmed combat floating up from the gym below.

"Fuck," says Sam.

* * *

"Oh, this is nice," says Mom, stopping to address a wrought iron table set. "Good price too."

"So, this is their sponsor?" Dad checks, subtly trying to move his wife _away_ from the potential patio furniture purchase. Unseen by the Wilder parents, Sam smiles to himself.

"That's what Ruth said." Mom is remarkably resistant to Dad's attempt to move them on. "They run demonstrations in return."

"Huh."

Sam lights his cigarette, and the movement causes Wilder Senior to finally look up from her patio table analysis. "Oh, hello," she says.

"Hi. Sam Sylvia."

"Yes. I remember." A tad frosty. "You're the director, right?"

"That's me." He attempts a friendly grin, but something in the slight stiffening of Dad's posture suggests he has missed the mark.

"Roger Wilder," says Dad, holding out a hand. Sam's prepared for a bone-crushing handshake when it comes, and just about manages not to wince. "And this is my wife Gaynor."

"My pleasure. So, do you come out to LA often?"

"No, no," confesses Roger. "It's a long way."

"And Ruth's very independent," adds Gaynor.

"Right." There's probably more small talk he should make to fill the gap here, but fundamentally, who gives a fuck? He finishes his cigarette in the awkward silence instead.

Up on stage, Debbie has the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen," she says, as Liberty Belle, "may I take this chance to welcome you all here, to the grand opening of Patiotown Sun Valley!"

There is a whoop and a cheer in response to this, he suspects because a beautiful woman in a leotard is saying it. The majority of the crowd are polite but passive. Gaynor's eyes have drifted back over to the wrought iron table.

"Patiotown has a range of products to suit every pocket," Liberty Belle continues, "and if you can't find what you're looking for, just ask one of the friendly staff—"

"I have question!" calls out Zoya from across the yard. Forty heads turn to look at her in unison.

"Not today, Zoya," replies Liberty. "These fine people don't want any trouble."

"Trouble?" Zoya sneers, walking up to the stage. "They don't want trouble?" She laughs. "In Soviet Russia, my dear, trouble finds _you_!" There is a gasp from the crowd, as on these words Ruth leaps onto the stage.

"Oh my goodness!" squeaks Gaynor, as the wrestlers begin their carefully choreographed routine. "I had no idea it was so realistic!"

The crowd _ooh_ and _ahh_ as Ruth and Debbie spar back and forth, locking and flipping. "She's really good at this, isn't she?" says Roger, to himself more than anyone else.

"Yeah," replies Sam, "she really is."

Roger starts, having forgotten he is there. "We're desperately proud of her."

"Yeah. I can see."

"She works so hard," adds Gaynor, wincing as Ruth hits the floor. "But it just… it never seems to _go_ anywhere."

"We only want her to be happy."

Sam shakes his head. "She's a perfectionist. Hard to be happy when you're chasing that," he offers.

Roger gives him an appraising look. "I get the feeling you're someone with some experience of that,"

Sam shrugs. "I do okay. She will too." There is a crashing thump, as Zoya drops Liberty Belle to the canvas with a cry of "vodka for breakfast!" Several people shriek amongst the spectators. "Yeah," says Sam. "She's going to be great."

* * *

"Hey," says Ruth, knock-knocking on the door lintel at the end of training. "Can I come in?"

"Sure Ruth," he says, shuffling papers on his desk as if they are important documents rather than his own cartoon scribblings. "Are you feeling better today?"

She ignores his sarcastic tone, taking the question as real. "Yeah. Mom and Dad left this morning and… it was good. Thank you."

"For what?"

"Convincing Debbie to do the demo with me. And whatever you said to them at Sun Valley yesterday. They seemed... uh, calmer. About everything."

"Well, that's great."

She sighs, irritated by his irritability. Counter-mad, one could say. "Are you okay? You seem grumpy."

"You don't have to fuss over me. I'm fine."

She puts her head on one side. "I'd believe that better if you hadn't disappeared on a three-day bender last time you told me you were fine."

He huffs. "Look, you don't need to worry about whether your parents think something is legitimate or not, okay? They love you regardless."

Her feet seem to have suddenly become very interesting, pink rising into her cheeks. She bites her lip before risking eye contact with him again. "I-I know that…" She blinks. "Is _that_ why you're mad?"

"No," he lies, pointlessly. He can tell from the softening of her shrewd expression she sees right through him.

She takes a step forward. "You have people that care about you too, Sam."

"Oh really? Who?"

She swallows. "Well, we-we all do."

"Uh-huh? You think if I dropped down dead tomorrow and Bash found some other idiot to run this circus anyone would really give a fuck?"

"Yeah," she says softly.

It's his turn to break eye contact. "Sorry," he mumbles. "I'm sorry. I don't know why—"

"You don't have to explain," she says, holding out her hands, placatory. A small smile. "I think… I think I get it."

"Yeah," he agrees, smiling back up at her, in spite of himself. _Fuck it._ "You wanna go get a coffee? Tell me what you really think of the new storyboards?"

"Yeah," she says. "I'd like that."


End file.
